It Could Not Have Been Otherwise
by Valiowk
Summary: They are not ready to give up their love, nor ready to admit their regrets. That will come later. But for now, they can be kindred spirits. Obi-Wan, Siri - bittersweet, vignette


**Title:** It Could Not Have Been Otherwise  
**Author:** Valiowk  
**Timeframe:** Immediately after _Jedi Quest: Path to Truth  
_**Characters:** Obi-Wan Kenobi, Siri Tachi  
**Genre:** angst, friendship  
**Keywords:** Obi-Wan Kenobi, Siri Tachi, Marina Tsvetaeva, "Мне нравится", "I like it"  
**Summary:** An intermediate scene between the two halves of _Legacy of the Jedi_ #2:_ Secrets of the Jedi_

_They are not ready to give up their love, nor ready to admit their regrets. Not ready to resign themselves to a future without each other, nor ready to understand that what binds them is purer than attachment. That will come later. But for now, they can be kindred spirits. _

**Author's notes: **

1) I changed the timeline so that Siri leaves the Jedi Temple in 33 BBY (one year before TPM), when she is 22 and Obi-Wan is 24, and _Path to Truth_ takes place in 31 BBY. This has the effect of fixing a few problems in the timeline (e.g. in _Jedi Quest_ #1, Siri's Padawan Ferus Olin is said to be "a few years older than Anakin", but Anakin is 13 in _Path to Truth_, and we know from Jedi Apprentice #1 that Jedi pupils need to become Padawans by their thirteenth birthday; also, if Siri supposedly left the Jedi Temple two years after TPM, then Anakin should have been acquainted with her prior to _Path to Truth_). This change is not significant to the story (the only place it appears is when I refer to the events of the first half of _Secrets of the Jedi_ as "eight years ago"), but it will be significant in a companion vignette that I am hoping to write.

2) The poem in this vignette, "Мне нравится" ("I like it"), was written by the Russian poet Marina Tsvetaeva in 1915; the translation here is my own. The biographical facts are true, up to transportation onto a different planet; the interpretation…is the point of this vignette.

Many thanks to **Estora** for a fantastic job in beta-reading this vignette!

* * *

**It Could Not Have Been Otherwise**

Pushing open the ornate doors of the Jedi Archives, Obi-Wan Kenobi instantly felt his spirits lift as he surveyed the vast shelves of holobooks contained within the magnificent stone hallways. Despite being a frequent visitor to the Archives, the ginger-haired, clean-shaven Jedi Knight never failed to be awed by the impressive collection of documents and artefacts contained within. Several years ago, Obi-Wan's late Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, had recommended the chambers to his Padawan after Obi-Wan had expressed his reluctance to bother the Jedi Master whenever he felt troubled. Qui-Gon had been sympathetic, stressing to his Padawan that he was always ready to lend him a listening ear, but simultaneously comprehending Obi-Wan's desire to be more self-reliant.

"Sometimes, Padawan, when I am desirous of a few words of wisdom that aren't quite so cryptic or acerbic," the Jedi Master had said with a glint in his eye, "I visit the Archives. There is much wisdom in the words of the ancients, even though they could themselves be misguided at times."

It was thus that Obi-Wan had begun frequenting the Archives, when affairs in the Jedi Temple, on missions, and in the galactic news troubled him. Often, reading a classic novel, a volume of poetry, a biography, or about a historical event related to the focus of his concern served to give him greater insight into the issue and let him become more understanding of diverse matters that the Jedi seldom came into contact with as a consequence of their atypical lifestyle. Initially, Obi-Wan had been apprehensive that Qui-Gon might be displeased by his Padawan's increased independence, interpreting it as a sign of a developing rift between Master and Padawan, but Qui-Gon had swiftly dispelled his worries, assuring Obi-Wan that he was pleased by his Padawan's growing maturity and increased perspicacity from his time in the Archives, and emphasising his confidence that his Padawan would approach him if he were unable to resolve his concerns on his own. After Qui-Gon's untimely death at the hands of the Zabrak Sith Lord a year ago, Obi-Wan regularly visited the Archives as a source of guidance in training his own Padawan, Anakin Skywalker, and also as a venue for recreation. Despite his relatively young age, the Jedi Knight was already well regarded by his peers for his extensive cultural and literary knowledge.

_Thank you for recommending me this place, Master,_ Obi-Wan thought to himself. _I feel you still by my side, imparting to me your wisdom through the books I read, whenever I am here._

Obi-Wan swiftly made his way towards his favourite set of shelves, those containing volumes of poetry from across the Galactic Republic, but paused in his steps when he saw the figure seated at the capacious marble table before him.

Siri Tachi.

The tall female Jedi was once again dressed in Jedi robes, her short blond hair unbraided and neatly combed, a marked difference from the unisuit she had last been wearing and the greasy, braided hairstyle she had sported while working undercover to infiltrate the operations of the slave trader Krayn. Her face was pensive, her lips moving slightly as she read from the holobook in front of her. Obi-Wan's first instinct was to move towards another area of the Archives, but he quickly stilled that impulse.

_After all,_ the Jedi Knight reflected, _she's the reason why you came to the Archives today, Kenobi._

Since Obi-Wan and Siri had admitted their feelings towards each other and subsequently made the decision to bury those feelings, the friendship between the two Jedi had been strained. They continued to converse civilly with each other when obligated to by circumstance, but more commonly, they would simply turn in separate directions when one spied the other approaching. Obi-Wan had only broken from this pattern when Siri had left the Temple to go undercover, believing her to have abandoned the Jedi Order, and had attempted numerous times to contact her, but had received no reply from Siri at that time. On the starship back to Coruscant, however, the relationship between them had been more amicable, the two of them and Anakin working well together as they sorted out Krayn's slave trading records. They had sat down to dinner together—something that Obi-Wan and Siri had not done together since they had parted company eight years ago—and Siri had even teased Obi-Wan in front of his Padawan about his dismal cooking skills. Their interaction had not reached the level of propinquity they had shared before, but it was a palpable improvement over their previous coolness towards each other. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan remained uncertain about the state of affairs between Siri and himself. After all, all their contact had transpired in Anakin's presence. Perhaps Siri's increased warmth was simply for the sake of his Padawan—she might simply have not wanted Anakin to feel discomforted in their presence. That had been the case when Obi-Wan and Siri had been together around their common friends at the Jedi Temple—the more friends whose presence they had been in, the greater an effort they had made to be jovial in each other's presence. It was being alone together that was the true test of how things stood between them.

Obi-Wan sucked in a deep breath and exhaled as he approached Siri's table. _Here goes,_ he thought to himself.

"Siri."

The younger Jedi raised her head and, after a few seconds, returned his greeting with a smile. "Obi-Wan."

It was a smile he had not seen in a long time, Siri at peace with herself in his presence, and Obi-Wan spontaneously felt the weight on his heart lighten. The Force pulsed around them, steady and peaceful. Taking Siri's response as a positive indication, Obi-Wan strolled towards her.

"What are you reading?"

Siri lifted the cover of the holobook from the table, and Obi-Wan's eyes rose slightly in surprise as they took in the exotic curves of the Pyccian alphabet. Many hundreds of years ago, Pyccian had been one of the primary languages of the Galactic Republic due to the economic influence of the Pyc sector. Over centuries, however, its importance had gradually declined as Basic emerged as the _lingua franca_ of the Republic. Nowadays, Pyccian was little used outside the Pyc sector, and even there, most communication with offworlders was conducted in Basic. It remained one of the languages that Jedi pupils could learn at the Temple, although most pupils, including Obi-Wan, Siri, and their friends Garen, Bant, and Reeft, had elected to study other languages such as High Galactic, Durese, and Bocce.

The female Jedi stood up to meet Obi-Wan as he reached her side. "The poems of Marina Tsvetaeva," she replied, aware that Obi-Wan was unable to read the words on the cover of the holobook.

Obi-Wan nodded briskly in recognition of the name. Marina Tsvetaeva had been one of the most outstanding poets of Pyc's Silver Age. A radical poet, her poems were considered extraordinarily innovative for her day. Yet, for all the fame her poetry had enjoyed and the esteem that other distinguished poets of her era had held her in, she had committed suicide in Yelubuga, a small town on the planet Pyc, unable to cope with the cleft of her family and the tremendous destruction that the civil war which had erupted on her planet had wrecked, and had been buried in an unmarked grave in Yelubuga, the precise location of which had since been lost in the sands of time.

"You learnt Pyccian while undercover?" Obi-Wan enquired.

Siri pursed her lips, her eyes taking on a distant look. "A Pyccian slave girl taught me the language," she replied after a short pause. Returning her gaze to the open page of the holobook, she continued, "This poem was a gift from her to me. A gift from a teacher to her student, she said. It was her way of turning the tables on her situation."

Obi-Wan glanced down at the open page, its words incomprehensible to him. Turning back to face Siri, he requested, "Would you translate it for me?" In that moment, their eyes connected, blue against blue-grey.

They regarded each other wordlessly for several moments, until Siri forced a trembling smile to her face and nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes, I will." She turned her gaze back to the book, and Obi-Wan, discomforted by what had just passed between them, did likewise.

Siri's dulcet tones rang out melodiously beside Obi-Wan.

"_I like it, that your thoughts dwell not upon me,  
__I like it, that my thoughts dwell not upon you,  
__That never shall this planet's heavy sphere be  
__Careening from beneath our feet without cue.  
__I like it, that I can be funny, silly,  
__Play fast and loose—though not with words before you,  
__And find no wave of blushes smothering me,  
__When with unruly sleeves I brush against you._" —A swallow.—

"_I like it too, that in my very presence  
__You so composedly embrace another,  
__And cast me not in brimstone fire as vengeance  
__To burn in hell, for having kissed some other.  
__That I possess, my tender, the assurance  
__That not by day nor night my name you'll utter…  
__That never_"—here Siri's voice shook, but rapidly steadied itself—"_shall a choir—amidst the silence—  
__Above us sing in chorus: Hallelujah!_

_I thank you with my heart and hand sincerely  
__For—though this sentiment you'd never construe—  
__So loving me: for my reposing soundly,  
__For twilight rendezvous that number too few,  
__For non-walks under the full moon's glory,  
__For the bright sun, that shines not on me, nor you,  
__For that your thoughts_"—her voice held only the faintest hint of a tremble—"_—alas!—dwell not upon me,  
__For that my thoughts—alas!—dwell not upon you._"

An acute silence descended upon the hallway, and Siri closed her eyes briefly, mutely willing the discomfort between Obi-Wan and her to dissipate.

"Siri." The female Jedi opened her eyes, certain that she could _hear_ a _grin_ in Obi-Wan's voice. "You didn't translate that on the spot, did you? The Jedi Order would have done the galaxy a great disservice, depriving it of such a talented poet as you."

Glancing at Obi-Wan, Siri perceived him trying to repress a tentative upward twitch of his lips. She stared at him for several seconds, dumbfounded, before a few giggles escaped her at the absurdity of Obi-Wan's assertion, the tension between the two Jedi diffused.

"No," Siri admitted. "I laboured over the translation over several meetings that degenerated into Krayn, Rashtah and some of the other slavers discussing their choices of lady Twi'lek companions the next time they were off the ship." The blond Jedi rolled her eyes. "They probably thought—with some misdirection on my part—"—Siri winked at Obi-Wan—"that I was watching vids of male Falleens performing in the Chancellor's Choice Cantina here on Coruscant or something." Obi-Wan's eyes had gone wide and the two Jedi shared a few snorts of laughter before their gazes fell upon the holobook again. "The girl who taught me Pyccian"—Siri glanced at Obi-Wan, her voice having turned serious again—"_she_ was a true connoisseur of poetry."

"It's an exquisite poem," Obi-Wan commented. He was looking into Siri's clear blue eyes again, and his throat had tightened. His next words slipped out before he could control them. "Did Marina and the one she loved—"

_Oh, Force, Kenobi, what have you said? You __promised__ never to remind her!_

Their earlier joking mood had loosened his tongue disgracefully. Obi-Wan's voice trailed away, unable to continue. That soft look on Siri's face—he knew exactly when he had last seen it: eight years ago, right before she had uttered the one sentence that he could not obliterate from his memory: "And I hope that we don't meet for a long, long time."

"It's not a love poem, Obi-Wan," Siri asserted softly.

Obi-Wan stared at her, uncomprehending. "It's not?" he finally cracked out, his mouth open in disbelief. "But the words…"

"It's not a love poem," Siri repeated. "Tsvetaeva dedicated the poem to her brother-in-law, M. A. Mints. There was nothing between them," she said clearly. "What she wrote in the poem—that she was glad that they could be comfortable with each other without all the awkwardness arising from having feelings for each other—she meant it literally."

"It's not a love poem," Obi-Wan echoed, trying out the words against his tongue. Siri nodded faintly.

Obi-Wan gazed at Siri, taking in each of her features. Her bright blue eyes, which shone with a wisdom she had gained over the years. The gentle curve of her lips, now calm and serene, yet, Obi-Wan knew, ever ready to make a quip at a friend. The way she held herself, the dignity and nobility of the Jedi coming so naturally to her. Siri would make a fine Jedi Knight. Now, Obi-Wan understood Qui-Gon's wisdom when he had advised them to continue on the Jedi path.

"Were they friends?" Obi-Wan finally asked after an extended pause.

Siri nodded. A tiny smile made its way to her face. "They were not just friends. They were kindred spirits, persons who shared a close affiliation in mind and soul, who spoke the same language and treaded softly on each other's dreams, because they shared the same. It could not have been otherwise."

"Kindred spirits," Obi-Wan repeated softly. "Kindred spirits," he reiterated, nodding to himself. "I like it." He regarded Siri again and let a smile come to his face, a smile that, it seemed, had lain quiescent for eight years, that Siri returned with a luminous one of her own. No matter what happened in the future, Obi-Wan knew, he would forever remember and treasure this moment, when Siri's face was soft and their souls were light once again.

Behind Siri, a chronometer on the wall chimed the hour. "It's time for me to accompany Master Adi to the Hall of Knighthood," Siri said. "Would you do me the honour of attending my Knighting Ceremony, Obi-Wan?"

"Of course," Obi-Wan replied with a grin and a firm nod. "How could it be otherwise?"

The two Jedi Knights replaced the holobook and exited the Archives side-by-side, chuckling together as Obi-Wan advised Siri to enjoy her time as an unfettered Knight while regaling her with tales of his exasperating Padawan. Their sleeves brushed against each other's, and they did not blush.

_I like it, that I can be funny, silly,  
__Play fast and loose—though not with words before you,  
__And find no wave of blushes smothering me,  
__When with unruly sleeves I brush against you._

It could not have been otherwise.


End file.
